Join me on my journey through parenthood. BYOHelmet.

We’ve had the best weekend, haven’t we? You are so much fun at this age. I know I keep saying that, but for reals. I particularly loved our date at IHOP yesterday. We got so many compliments from other diners on your temperament and behavior. The squalling toddler two tables over only made you look better. You only got mad once, when I put the food away before you were ready. Pancake firmly in hand, life was right again.

Speaking of eating, sweet jesus you are a piggy right now. You eat from the moment you wake until you pass out at night. This morning you thrust your morning bottle at me as soon as you finished, pointed at the door and said “eat!” It’s officially your third word and I couldn’t be more proud.

We’re enjoying time with my parents and Uncle Moe today and I can’t wait for you to wake up from your nap so we can play some more. You’re the sweetest, most friendly little guy and I’m so glad that you’re mine.

The house went on the market yesterday morning. Before A and I left in the morning I adjusted everything to the realtor’s staging requirements:

blinds open at a certain angle

lights on

everything clean

shotgun hidden (apparently she doesn’t have to give that instruction often)

soft music playing

Apparently, it worked. I got the request for a showing at 3:00, and then later a reshowing at 7:00. I was enjoying some fine patio dining and wine with a great friend when the realtor let me in on the happy news.

They made an offer, y’all.

And they’re paying cash. (Yeah, that’s weird to me, too. No I don’t know why. No, I don’t care if they turn it into a grow house.)

I should be moving all my worldly goods into the garage and filling my home with fake vanilla awesomeness, but instead I’m bringing you A’s latest dance moves. For awhile I thought he might actually have some rhythm, but alas it was not to be. The previously-mentioned arm dance is included, this time with both arms. Also, notice how he understands which buttons/keys do what on the Dreaded Machine of Death.

Anyone want to buy my house? As the realtor was listing the myriad ways I need to modify my home so as to appear not to live there, I thought I had a better idea. I’m thinking I’ll just raffle it off to some wonderful reader. I’m willing to take a 100,000 hit on this to avoid “changing all the hangers so they match” and “move all your dilapidated crap to the garage since it’s depressing” and “leave no signs of life” and “hide your financials and prescriptions.”

I’m looking for a pretty specific buyer. Basically, us from five years ago. Young couple, no kids, so they won’t care that the non-master bedrooms are glorified closets. First time buyers who will feel fancified having a separate tub and shower–hopefully so much so that they don’t notice the shower is smaller than a phone booth. People who want to entertain outside, since the backyard is huge but there’s hardly any room to eat in the kitchen. It would help if they felt Puffs ground into the carpet was an aesthetic bonus but I won’t be greedy.

My poor mom gets no respect. She’s the Rodney Dangerfield of moms. (She’ll tell you, too.) My brother and I decided many years ago to start calling out to her as ‘Maaaaaaaaaaaaam’ in a high-pitched farm animal voice whenever she left the room. We mix up the pitch and tonality, trading off until we’ve maximized the annoyance factor. We are so ungrateful.

Yet today, I want to use this space to give props to my mom. Thanks to her unending love for and devotion to all things HGTV, I do not fear what the prospective realtor will say when she scopes out my house tonight. There are still a couple of things I need to change, like removing the giant glass vases holding christmas ornaments from the top of the kitchen cabinets (don’t judge! They look nice. In December.) for example, but overall I think it looks pretty good. Mom always puts the TV on that channel when she is with A, so I’m hoping he’ll do a walkthrough and suggest some changes before the realtor arrives.

I hope things go quickly, and yet I don’t. The idea of paying the mortgage alone is daunting, but it’s heartbreaking to consider moving out of A’s first home. Given that about twelve houses in my subdivision went up for sale last week, I think I still have time to come to terms with it.

I’m sorry. I worry that your recent bouts of aggression are the result of the upheaval and tension in your life. You’ve been trying to hit me (in the face, no less) and your dad says you have been brandishing your wooden spoon like a weapon under his care. Today, you bit your girlfriend’s face at daycare (and not in a good way).

I’m so sorry for the ways I’ve failed you. We moms are quick to martyr ourselves over the veggie to french fry ratio in our kids’ diets or the amount of Nick Jr they watch, but this is a deeper fail. I failed to create a loving and safe home for you, where you could thrive and see your parents as the model of how a man and woman should love each other.

I’m sorry we don’t always know where your favorite shirt is, or who has the flip cam. I’m sorry you never know who’s picking you up. I’m sorry you don’t just have one bed, one bathtub, one safe place.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t, that I wouldn’t, make it work. I’m sorry that I had to put myself first. I hope some day you can understand why.

I love you so much. I hope you know that, even though I only get to be with you half of the time. Know that it kills me to be apart from you. That I wish every single day that it could have been different, that I could tuck you in each night and see your face each morning.

It was so different in the waiting room with a mobile baby little dude. A was all over the place, but not in a spastic way. Just in an, in the chair then walking around then looking at the fish then this chair no that chair and ooh do you think that kid wants to play and by play I mean smush our faces together? (That last part really happened. I quickly assured the parent that we were there for a checkup only and were not carrying any known plagues. She said the same but you can’t trust strangers these days.)

When we first arrived (probably should have led off with that, huh? I’m a little distracted right now. My apologies.) A insisted on sitting alone. I was just going to take a picture of him sitting there like a Real Boy, but I actually got lucky and captured the reason for his insisted independence.

You see, that’s my kid, doing his best to mack on a teenage blonde. Aim high, little guy. Aim high.

We finally got a room after forty exhausting minutes of waiting. You wouldn’t think it’s that hard, seeing as he still moves quite slowly, but it’s the gripping fear that he will Do Something at any moment that will expose you to the rest of the masses as an Unfit Parent that just sucks the life right out of you.

The appointment itself was uneventful. A is happy and healthy. Pedi says it’s time to ditch the bottle and I agree, but jeebus it’s going to be an epic battle (any tips? hints? cheat codes?) and I’m skeered.

As far as stats go, he’s holding steady at 50% on weight. He’s a little above that on height at between 50-75%. But the best part? That fat noggin is still clocking in at the 90th percentile.

Methinks we’ll be that kid with the special supersized helmet during football season.